OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
OF 


\ 


/ 


• 


POEM 

DELIVERED    BEFORE    THE 

SOCIETY  OF  UNITED  BROTHERS, 

AT 

BROWN  UNIVERSITY, 

ON     THE    DAY    PRKCEPINO    COMMENCEMENT, 
SEPTEMBER    6,   1831. 

WITH    OTHER    POEMS. 

BY 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 


Jlcto^lPmrfc : 


PUBLISHED   BY   J.   &  J.   HARPER, 

NO.   62  CLIFF-STREET. 

-OLD    BY    THK    PRINCIPAL    BOOKSELLERS   THROUGHOUT 
THE     UNITKP    STATKS. 

1831. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty- 
one,  by  J.  Sf  J.  Harper,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


TO  ONfc- 

Of   WHOM,    IN  TBI8    MOMENT  Of  DEPARTURE    KOR   A   FOREIGN   LAND, 
I  TUINK,  SADLY  AND  ONLY— 

TO     MY    MOTHER, 

THW  VOLUME  18,  WITH  TDK  DEEPEST  AFFECTION  OF  HER  8O», 
FONDLY  AMD  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED. 


fV 


POEM 

DELIVERED    BEFORE    THE 

SOCIETY  OF  UNITED  BROTHERS, 

AT    BROWN    UNIVERSITY, 

Cotnm-ne.wnnf,  S«,*.  6,  1811, 
BIT   K.  P.  WILLIS. 


P    O    E     M 


IP  in  the  eyes  that  rest  upon  me  now 
I  see  the  light  of  an  immortal  fire— 
If  in  the  awe  of  concentrated  thought, 
The  solemn  presence  of  a  multitude 
Breathing  together,  the  instinctive  mind 
Acknowledges  aright  a  type  of  God — 
If  every  soul  that  from  its  chambers  dim 
Answers  this  summons,  be  a  deathless  spark 
Lit  to  outburn  the  ever  constant  stars, — 
Then  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  tliis  hour 
Compell'd  from  Heaven,  and  if  the  soaring  minds 
Usher'd  this  day  upon  an  untried  flight 
Stoop  not  their  courses,  we  are  met  to  cheer 
Spirits  of  light  sprung  freslily  on  their  way. 


8  POEM. 

How  strangely  certain  is  the  human  mind. 
Godlike  and  gifted  as  it  is,  to  err! 
It  wakes  within  a  frame  of  various  powers, 
A  stranger  in  a  new  and  wondrous  world. 
It  brings  an  instinct  from  some  other  sphere, 
For  its  fine  senses  are  familiar  all, 
And,  with  th'  unconscious  habit  of  a  dream, 
It  calls,  and  they  obey.     The  priceless  sight 
Springs  to  its  curious  organ,  and  the  ear 
Learns  strangely  to  detect  the  articulate  air 
In  its  unseen  divisions,  and  the  tongue 
Gets  its  miraculous  lesson  with  the  rest, 
And  in  the  midst  of  an  obedient  throng 
Of  well-trained  ministers,  the  mind  goes  forth 
To  search  the  secrets  of  a  new-found  home. 

Its  infancy  is  full  of  hope  and  joy. 
Knowledge  is  sweet,  and  Nature  is  a  nurse 
Gentle  and  holy;  and  the  light  and  air, 
And  all  things  common,  warm  it  like  the  sun. 
And  ripen  the  eternal  seed  within. 
And  so  its  youth  glides  on ;  and  still  it  seems 
A  heavenward  spirit,  straying  oftentimes, 
But  never  widely;  and  if  Death  might  come 
And  ravish  it  from  earth  as  it  is  now, 
We  could  almost  believe  that  it  would  mount. 


P  O  K  M  .  t 

Spotless  and  radiant,  from  the  v.-ry  (j 

Hut  manhood  conic-,  and  in  iis  IHK.UU  >iis 

Another  spirit.     Stranger  as  it  960000] 

It  is  familiar  there-,  for  it  ha<  irroxvn 

In  the,  unsearrh'd  recesses  all  unseen, — 

Or  if  its  shadow  darkened  the  bright  doors, 

"Txvas  smiled  upon  and  irently  driven  in; 

And  as  the  spider  and  tin;  honey-bee 

Feed  on  the  same  bright  flownv.  this  mockinu  soul 

Fed  with  its  purer  brother,  and  grew  strong, 

Till  now,  in  semblance  of  the  soul  itself, 

With  its  own  mim  and  sceptre,  and  a  voice 

Sweet  as  an  angel's  and  as  full  of  power, 

It  sits,  a  bold  usurper  on  the  throne. 

What  is. its  nature?     'Tis  a  child  of  clay, 

And  born  of  human  passions.     In  its  train 

Follow  all  things  unholy — Love  of  Gold, 

Ambition,  Pleasure,  Pride  of  place  or  name, 

All  that  we  worship  for  itself  alone, 

^% 

All  that  we  may  not  carry  through  the  grave. 

We  have  made  idols  of  these  perishing  things 

Till  they  have  grown  time-honored  on  their  shrines, 

And  all  men  bow  to  them.     Yet  what  are  they? 

What  is  AMBITION?     'Tis  a  glorious  cheat! 

Angels  of  light  walk  not  so  dazzlingly 

The  sapphire  walls  of  Heaven.     The  unsearch'd  mine 


10  POEM. 

Hath  not  such  gems.     Earth's  constellated  thrones 
Have  not  such  pomp  of  purple  and  of  gold. 
It  hath  no  features.     In  its  face  is  set 
A  mirror,  and  the  gazer  sees  his  own. 
It  looks  a  god,  but  it  is  like  himself  ! 
It  hath  a  mien  of  empery,  and  smiles 
Majestically  sweet — but  how  like  him  ! 
It  follows  not  with  Fortune.     It  is  seen 
Rarely  or  never  in  the  rich  man's  hall. 
It  seeks  the  chamber  of  the  gifted  boy, 
And  lifts  his  humble  window,  and  comes  in. 
The  narrow  walls  expand,  and  spread  away 
Into  a  kingly  palace,  and  the  roof 
Lifts  to  the  sky,  and  unseen  fingers  work 
The  ceilings  with  rich  blazonry,  and  write 
His  name  in  burning  letters  over  all. 
And  ever,  as  he  shuts  his  wildered  eyes, 
The  phantom  comes  and  lays  upon  his  lids 
A  spell  that  murders  sleep,  and  in  his  ear 
Whispers  a  deathless  word,  and  on  his  brain 
Breathes  a  fierce  thirst  no  water  will  allay. 
He  is  its  slave  henceforth  !     His  days  are  spent 
In  chaining  down  his  heart,  and  watching  where 
To  rise  by  human  weaknesses.    His  nights 
Bring  him  no  rest  in  all  their  blessed  hours. 
His  kindred  are  forgotten  or  estranged. 


POKM.  II 

Unhealtlifnl  fins  luirn  constant  in  \\\<  <-\v. 
His  lip  grows  restless,  and  its  smile  is  mil'd 
Half  into  scorn — till  the  bright,  liny  t>oy, 
That  was  a  daily  blessing  but  to  see, 
His  spirit  was  so  bird-like  and  so  pure, 
Is  frozen,  in  the  very  flush  of  youth, 
Into  a  cold,  care-fretted,  heartless  man  ! 

And  what  is  its  reward  ?     At  best,  a  name ! 
Praise — when  the  ear  has  grown  too  dull  to  hear  ; 
Gold — when  the  senses  it  should  please  are  dead  ; 
Wreaths — when  the  hair  they  cover  has  grown  gray  ; 
Fame — when  the  heart  it  should  have  thrilfd  is  numb  : 
All  things  but  love — when  love  is  all  we  want, 
And  close  behind  comes  Death,  and  ere  we  know 
That  even  these  unavailing  gifts  are  ours, 
He  sends  us,  stripp'd  and  naked,  to  the  grave ! 

Is  it  its  own  reward  ?     Reply  to  it 
Every  aspiring  heart  within  these  Avails  I 
Summon  the  shadows  of  those  bitter  hours 
Wasted  in  brooding  on  neglect !     Recall 
The  burning  tears  wrung  from  a  throbbing  brain 
By  a  proud  effort  foil'd;  and  after  all 
These  agonies  are  number'd,  rack  your  heart 
Back  to  its  own  self-nurtur'd  wretchedness, 


12  POEM. 

And  when  the  pangs  are  crowded  into  one 
Of  all  life's  scorpion-stings,  and  Death  itself 
Is  sent  or  stayed,  as  it  would  bless  or  curse, 
Tell  me  if  self-misgiving  torture  not 
Unutterably  more ! 

Yet  this  is  all ! 

The  world  has  no  such  glorious  phantom  else. 
The  spirit  that  could  slave  itself  to  Gold 
Hath  never  drunk  of  knowledge  at  the  well. 
And  Pleasure,  if  the  senses  would  expand 
And  multiply  with  using,  might  delude 
The  flesh-imprisoned  fancy — but  not  long. 
And  earthly  Love — if  measured,  is  too  tame — 
And  if  it  drink,  as  in  proud  hearts  it  will, 
At  the  deep  springs  of  life,  is  but  a  cloud 
Brooding  with  nameless  sorrow  on  the  soul — 
A  sadness — a  sick-heartedness — a  tear  ! 

And  these  are  the  high  idols  of  this  world  ! 
Retreating  shadows  caught  but  at  the  grave — 
Mocking  delusions,  changing  at  the  touch — 
Of  one  false  spirit  the  false  children  all. 
And  yet,  what  godlike  gifts  neglected  lie 
Wasting  and  marr'd  in  the  forgotten  soul ! 
The  finest  workmanship  of  God  is  there. 
'Tis  fleeter  than  the  wings  of  light  and  wind ; 


POEM.  I ;; 

'Tis  subtler  than  the  rare.-t  shape  of  air; 

l-'iiv  and  wind  and  water  do  iis  \\ill : 

Ma rlh  has  no  secret  from  its  deli. -ale  eye  ; 
The  air  no  alrhyiuy  it  solveth  not ; 
The  >tar- \\ril  Heavens  an-  read  and  understood, 
And  every  sparry  mineral  hath  a  name. 
And  truth  is  recogniz'd,  and  beauty  felt, 
And  God's  own  image  stamp'd  upon  its  brow. 

How  is  it  so  forgotten  ?      Will  it  live 
When  the  great  firmament  is  rolled  away? 
Hath  it  a  voice  forever  audible, 
"  I  AM  ETERNAL  !"     Can  it  overcome 
This  mocking  passion-fiend,  and  even  here 
Live  like  a  seraph  upon  truth  and  light  'I 

How  can  we  ever  be  the  slaves  we  are, 
With  a  sweet  angel  sitting  in  our  breasts  ! 
1  low  can  we  creep  so  lowly,  when  our  wings 
Tremble  and  plead  for  freedom  !     Look  at  him 
Who  reads  aright  the  image  on  his  soul, 
And  gives  it  nurture  like  a  child  of  light. 
His  life  is  calm  and  blessed,  for  his  peace, 
Like  a  rich  pearl  beyond  the  diver's  km, 
Lies  deep  in  his  own  bosom.     He  is  pure, 
For  the  soul's  errands  are  not  done  with  men. 


14  POEM. 

His  senses  are  subdued  and  serve  the  soul. 
He  feels  no  void,  for  every  faculty 
Is  used,  and  the  fine  balance  of  desire 
Is  perfect,  and  strains  evenly,  and  on. 
Content  dwells  with  him,  for  his  mind  is  fed, 
And  Temperance  has  driven  out  unrest. 
He  heaps  no  gold.    It  cannot  buy  him  more 
Of  any  tiling  he  needs.     The  air  of  Heaven 
Visits  no  freshlier  the  rick  man's  brow ; 
He  has  his  portion  of  each  silver  star 
Sent  to  his  eye  as  freely,  and  the  light 
Of  the  blest  sun  pours  on  his  book  as  clear 
As  on  the  golden  missal  of  a  king. 
The  spicy  flowers  are  free  to  him  ;  the  swar< 
And  tender  moss,  and  matted  forest  leaves 
Are  as  elastic  to  his  weary  feet ; 
The  pictures  in  the  fountains,  and  beneath 
The  spreading  trees,  fine  pencilings  of  light, 
Stay  while  he  gazes  on  them ;  the  bright  birds 
Know  not  that  he  is  poor ;  and  as  he  comes 
From  his  low  roof  at  morn,  up  goes  the  lark 
Mounting  and  singing  to  the  gate  of  Heaven, 
And  merrily  away  the  little  brook 
Trips  with  its  feet  of  silver,  and  a  voice 
Almost  articulate,  of  perfect  joy. 
Air  to  his  forehead,  water  to  his  lips, 


Ural  to  liis  l»l(xxl,  roinc  just  as  faithfully. 
And  his  own  families  as  fnvly  play. 
Love  fills  his  voice  with  musir,  and  the  tear 
Springs  at  as  light  a  bidding  to  his  eye; 
And  his  free  limbs  obey  him.  and  his  sight 
Flies  on  its  wondrous  errands  every  where. 

What  does  he  need  ?     Next  to  the  works  of  God 
His  friends  are  the  rapt  sages  of  old  time  ; 
And  they  impart  their  wisdom  to  his  soul 
In  lavish  fulness,  when  and  where  he  will. 
He  sits  in  his  mean  dwelling  and  communes 
With  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  the  shades 
Of  all  great  men  and  holy,  and  the  words 
Written  in  fire  by  Milton,  and  the  King 
Of  Israel,  and  the  troop  of  glorious  bards, 
Ravish  and  steal  his  soul  up  to  the  sky— 
And  what  is  it  to  him,  if  these  come  in 
And  visit  him,  that  at  his  humble  door 
There  are  no  pillars  with  rich  capitals 
And  walls  of  curious  workmanship  within  ? 

I  stand  not  here  in  Wisdom's  sacred  stole. 
My  lips  have  not  been  touch'd  with  holy  fire. 
An  humbler  office  than  a  counsellor 
Of  human  duties,  and  an  humbler  place 


16  POEM. 

Would  better  grace  my  knowledge  and  my  years, 
I  would  not  seem  presuming.     Yet  have  I 
Mingled  a  little  in  this  earnest  world. 
And  staked  upon  its  chances,  and  have  learned 
Truths  that  I  never  gather'd  from  my  books. 
And  though  the  lessons  they  have  taught  me  seem 
Things  of  the  wayside  to  the  practised  man^ 
It  is  a  wisdom  by  much  wandering  learned; 
And  if  but  one  young  spirit  bend  its  wing 
More  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  because  it  knew 
The  erring  courses  that  bewildered  mine, 
I  have  not  suffered,  nor  shall  teach  in  vain. 

It  is  a  lesson  oftener  learned  than  loved — 
All  knowledge  is  not  nourishment.     The  mind 
May  pine  upon  its  food.     In  reckless  thirst 
The  scholar  sometimes  kneels  beside  the  stream 
Polluted  by  the  lepers  of  the  mind. 
The  sceptic,  with  his  doubts  of  all  things  good 
And  faith  in  all  things  evil,  has  been  there ; 
And,  as  the  stream  was  mingled,  he  has  strown 
The  shore  with  all  bright  flowers  to  tempt  the  eye, 
And  sloped  the  banks  down  gently  for  the  feet ; 
And  Genius,  like  a  fallen  child  of  light, 
Has  filled  the  place  with  magic,  and  compell'd 
Most  beautiful  creations  into  forms 


POI  17 

And  images  of  license,  and  they  conn1 

And  tempt  you  with  bewildering  <jra«-e  ID  kneel 

And  drink  of  the,  wild  waters;    and  Iteliind 

•Stand  the  strong  IV- ion-,  pleading  to  o-0  in; 

And  the  approving  \VDrld  look-  .-ilml  mi: 

Till  the  pleased  mind  ron-pire<  a'>;iin-i  it-elf. 

And  finds  a  subtle  reason  \vhv  'ti-  -J-«MM|. 

We  are  deceived,  though,  even  as  we,  drink, 

We  taste  the  evil.     In  hi- <\\e,-ir-i  ion.' 

The  lying  Tempter  whispers  in  our  ear. 

"Tho'  it  may  sldin.  'twill  .N-//V  u'jtlu  n  your  proud  winirs ;'' 

And  in  the  wild  ambition  of  the  soul 

We  drink  anew,  and  dream  like  Lucifer 

To  mount  upon  our  daring  draught  to  Heaven. 

I  need  not  follow  the  similitude. 
Health  is  vitality,  and  if  the  mind 
Is  fed  on  poison,  it  must  !<>-.>  its  power. 
The  vision  that  forever  strains  to  err 
Soon  finds  its  task  a  habit;  and  the  ta-ie 
That  will  own  nothing  true  or  beautiful 
Soon  finds  the  world  distorted  as  itself; 
And  the  loose  mind,  that  feed-  an  appetite 
For  the  enticements  of  licentious  thought. 
Contracts  a  leprosy  that  oversteals 
Its  senses,  like  a  palsy,  chill,  and  fust. 


18  POEM. 

The  soul  must  be  in  health  to  keep  its  powers* 
It  must  lie  open  to  the  influences 
Of  all  things  pure  and  simple.     Like  a  flower 
"Within  a  stifled  chamber,  it  will  droop 
If  hidden  from  the  pleasant  sun  and  air ; 
And  every  delicate  fibre  must  have  room 
To  quicken  and  extend,  and  more  than  all, 
The  stream  that  gives  it  moisture  must  be  pure. 

Another  lesson  with  my  manhood  came. 
I  have  unlearned  contempt.     It  is  the  sin 
That  is  engender'd  earliest  in  the  soul, 
And  doth  beset  it  like  a  poison-worm, 
Feeding  on  all  its  beauty.     As  it  steals 
Into  the  bosom  you  may  see  the  light 
Of  the  clear,  heavenly  eye  grow  cold  and  dim, 
And  the  fine,  upright  glory  of  the  brow 
Cloud  with  mistrust,  and  the  unfettcr'd  lip, 
That  was  as  free  and  changeful  as  the  wind, 
Even  in  sadness  redolent  of  love, 
Curl'd  with  the  iciness  of  a  constant  scorn. 
It  eats  into  the  mind  till  it  pollutes 
All  its  pure  fountains.     Feeling,  reason,  taste 
Breathe  of  its  chill  corruption.     Every  sense 
That  could  convey  a  pleasure  is  benumb'd, 
And  the  bright  human  being,  that  was  made 


Full  of  all  warm  jilliviions,  and  with  jnmer 
To  look  throuirh  all  tiling  lo\rly  up  to  God, 
Is  changed  into  a  cold  and  doubting  iirnd, 
With  but  one  use  for  reason — to  despise  ! 

Oh  if  there  is  one  law  above  the  rest 
Written  in  wisdom — if  there  is  a  word 
That  I  would  trace  as  with  a  pen  of  lire 
Upon  the  unsunn'd  temper  of  a  child— 
If  there  is  any  thing  that  keeps  the  mind 
Open  to  angel  visits,  and  repels 
The  ministry  of  ill — 'tis  human  love! 
God  has  made  nothing  worthy  of  contempt. 
The  smallest  pebble  in  the  well  of  truth 
Has  its  peculiar  meaning,  and  will  stand 
When  man's  best  monuments  have  passed  away. 
The  law  of  Heaven  is  love  and  though  its  name  ; 
Has  been  usurp'd  by  passion,  and  profaned 
To  its  unholy  uses  through  all  time, 
Still,  the  eternal  principle  is  pure ; 
And  in  these  deep  affections  that  we  feel 
Omnipotent  within  us,  we  but  see 
The  lavish  measure  in  which  love  is  given, 
And  in  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a  child 
For  every  bird  that  sings  above  his  head, 
And  every  creature  feeding  on  the  hills, 


20  POEM. 

And  every  tree,  and  flower,  and  running  brook, 
We  see  how  every  thing  was  made  to  love, 
And  how  they  err,  who,  in  a  world  like  this, 
Find  any  thing  to  hate  but  human  pride ! 

Oh,  if  we  are  not  bitterly  deceived — 
If  this  familiar  spirit  that  communes 
With  yours  this  hour — that  has  the  power  to  search 
All  things  but  its  own  compass — is  a  spark 
Struck  from  the  burning  essence  of  its  God — 
If,  as  we  dream,  in  every  radiant  star 
We  see  a  shining  gate  through  which  the  soul, 
In  its  degrees  of  being,  will  ascend — 
If,  when  these  weary  organs  drop  away, 
We  shall  forget  their  uses,  and  commune 
With  angels  and  each  other,  as  the  stars 
Mingle  their  light,  in  silence  and  in  love — 
Wliat  is  this  fleshly  fetter  of  a  day 
That  we  should  bind  it  with  immortal  flowers ! 
How,  do  we  ever  gaze  upon  the  sky, 
And  watch  the  lark  soar  up  till  he  is  lost, 
And  turn  to  our  poor  perishing  dreams  away, 
Without  one  tear  for  our  imprisoned  wings ! 


THE    DYING   ALCIIYMIST. 


THE  night-wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by. 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges,  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 

Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 

******* 

The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low; 
Yet  still  it  burned,  and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy,  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 


22  THE    DYING    ALCHYMIST. 

Muttered  a  curse  on  death !     The  silent  room 
From  its  dim  corners  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath ;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell,  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one, 
He  drew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank. .  And  instantly  his  lips  compressed, 
And  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: — • 

I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th3  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye; 
I  felt — Oh  God !  it  seemeth  even  now 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow. 

And  yet  it  is — I  feel 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart  afraid ; 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand, 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 


TIM       DYING      M<   ITYMIST.  '-•» 

And  this  H  drnth!     Out  why 
Peel  I  this  wild  recoil?     Jt  eammi  IIP 
Th'  immortal  spirit  shuddrrcth  to  be  free! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly, 
Like  a  chained  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call  .' 
I  fear — I  fear  that  this  poor  life  is  all ! 

Yet  thus  to  pass  away ! — 
To  live  hut  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last — 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are — for  this — for  nought ! 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit ! — but  a  day — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within ! 

I  would  know  something  here ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken ! 

Vain — vain ! — my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 


24  THE    DYING    ALCHYMIST. 

And  I  am  freezing — burning — 
Dying!  Oh  God!  if  I  might  only  live! — 

My  phial Ha !  it  thrills  me — I  revive. 

******* 

Ay — were  not  man  to  die 
He  were  too  glorious  for  this  narrow  sphere. 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here — 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye — 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour — 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power ! 

Earth  has  no  mineral  strange — 
Th'  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings — 
Water  no  quality  in  its  covert  springs. 

And  fire  no  power  to  change — 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell, 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 

Oh,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky- 
To  see  th'  invisible  spirits,  eye  to  eye — 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back — 
To  tread  unhurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls — 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  horizon  walls — 


Tin:   nvixr,   Ai.ru YMIST.  25 

And  more,  much  more — for  now 
The  life-sealed  fountains  of  my  natmv  move — 
To  nurse  and  purify  tins  Inn  nan  love — 

To  clear  the  god-like  brow 
Of  weakness  and  mistrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one— 
This  were  indeed  to  fn-1 
The  soul-thirst  slakeii  at  the  living  stream- 
To  live— Oh  God !  that  life  is  but  a  dream! 

And  death Aha !  I  reel- 
Dim — dim — I  faint — darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye — 
Cover  me !  save  me ! God  of  Heaven !  I  die ! 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone — 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.     His  long  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild. 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

The  storm  was  raging  still.     The  shutters  swung 
Screaming  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind, 


26  THE    DYING    ALCHYMIST. 

And  all  without  went  on — as  aye  it  will 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them,  and  the  small  silver  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down — an  instrument 
Broken  with  its  own  compass.     He  was  born 
Taller  than  he  might  walk  beneath  the  stars, 
And  with  a  spirit  tempered  like  a  god's, 
He  was  sent  blindfold  on  a  path  of  light, 
And  turn'd  aside  and  perished  !     Oh  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  out-flown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest. 


TIIK    LKl'KK. 


"  ROOM  for  the  leper!  Room!"     And  as  he  came 

The  cry  passed  on — "  Room  for  the  leper!  Room!" 

Sunr'M-  WQB  -lantinir  on  the  <  ity  gates 

1J..~\  ;iiul  heaiiiiful.  and  from  the  hills 

The  early  risen  poor  were  coming  in 

Duly  and  cheerfully  to  their  toil,  and  up 

Uo-f  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 

Of  mo\inir  whivls  and  multitudes  astir, 

And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells, 

Unheard  hut  hy  the  watcher'-  \\-  aiy  ear, 

Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 

Hailing  the  welcome  light,  and  sounds  that  chase 

The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 

"  Room  for  the  leper!'5     And  aside  they  stood 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 


28  THE    LEPER. 

Who  met  him  on  his  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow. 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down. 
Crying  "  Unclean ! — Unclean ! " 

'Twas  now  the  depth 
Of  the  Judean  summer,  and  the  leaves 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  budded  on  the  clear  and  flashing  eye 
Of  Judah's  loftiest  noble.     He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance,  and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye 
Followed  with  benisons—  and  this  was  he ! 
With  the  soft  airs  of  Summer  there  had  come 
A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 
Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 
Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 
The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 
The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins; 
Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye ;  a  drowsy  sloth 


THI: 

Fettered  his  liniln  like  pal-v.  and  ]\\<  port. 

\Viih  all  its  loftinc— .  SIM-MUM!  -truck  with  eld. 

Even  his  voice  was  changed—  a  languid  moan 

Taking  the  place  of  the  drar.  -ilvn  ! 

And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  lii^lit, 

And  very  air,  were  steeped  in  sluggishness. 

He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 

Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 

Slackened  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 

The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 

Day  after  day  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep. 

His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales 

Circled  with  livid  purple,  covered  him. 

And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 

From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 

Deepened  beneath  the  hard  unmoistened  scales, 

And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 

— And  Helon  was  a  leper ! 

Day  was  breaking 

AVhen  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense  lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 


30  THE    LEPER. 

The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 

Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up. 

Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his  head 

Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 

His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb, 

And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 

Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still 

Waiting  to  hear  his  doom: — 

Depart!  depart,  O  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God, 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod, 

And  to  the  desert  wild 

From  all  thou  lov'st  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 

Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er : 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide, 


•rn  i.    i.i  ri.  «. 

Nor  kneel  th«v  dn\\  ii  i«.  dip 
Tlir  water  where  the  pilgrim  bnids  to  drink. 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

And  | LI—  thou  not  tetween 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  lu <<•/.>. 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  tln«  trees 

Where  human  Hacks  are  seen; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  thai  l»ro\\vrih  on  the  plain. 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

And  now  depart !  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  his  chastening  rod — 
Depart !  O  leper !  and  forget  not  God  ! 

And  he  went  forth — alone !  not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.     Yea — he  went  his  way. 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone — to  die ! — 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper! 


31 


32  THE    LEPER. 

It  was  noon. 

And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest — to  die! 
Footsteps  approached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying  " Unclean!  Unclean !"  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 
"  Helon ! " — the  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon !  arise ! "  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 

Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helen's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore; 


i  m:   i.r.rr.  u. 

No  followers  at  hi-  hack,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  s|x>ar-  -yet  in  hi-  mini 
Command  sat  throned  lemae,  and  if  he  smiled, 
A  kiii-jlv  conde.-ivn-ion  :iracrd  liis  lip-. 
The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  hi-  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandal-  worn; 
His  stature  modelled  with  a  perfect  grace ; 
His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  God, 
Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child; 
His  eye  was  hlue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 
In  the  sercnest  noon;  hi*  hair  unshorn 
Fell  to  his  shoulders;  and  his  curling  beard 
The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 
He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 
As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and  stooping  down 
He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand 
And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said.  -  He  clean!" 
And  lo!  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 
Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  \eiiH. 
And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 
The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 
His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 
Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  worshipped  him. 


PARRHASIUS. 

"  Parrhasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  amongst  those  Olynthian  captives  Philip 
of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man  j  and  when  he 
had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme  torture  and  torment, 
the  better,  by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains  and  passions  of  his  Prome 
theus,  whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint." — Burton's  Anat.  of  Mel. 


THERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 
A  gray-haired  and  majestical  old  man, 
Chained  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 
And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 
Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 
Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung 
As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 
He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  had  borne 
From  every  eye  in  Athens  the  cold  gaze 
Of  curious  scorn.     The  Jew  had  taunted  him 
For  an  Olynthian  slave.     The  buyer  came 
And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 


1'A  K  R  II  AS  I  TS.  35 

And  touched  his  unhealed  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 

Passed  on.  and  when,  with  weariness  o'erspent, 

He  bowed  his  head  in  a  ioi^vtl'ul  >!<•<•}>. 

Th'  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and  witli  threats 

Of  torture  to  his  children  summoned  hack 

The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

Twas  evening,  and  the  half  descended  sun 

Tipped  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 

Of  Athens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 

Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 

Through  which  the  captive  gazed.     He  had  borne  up 

With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 

Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs, 

But  now  he  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 

The  needless  strength  departed,  and  he  leaned 

Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 

Throng  on  him  as  they  would.     Unmarked  of  him, 

Parrhasius  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 

Gazing  upon  his  grief.     Th'  Athenian's  cheek 

Flushed  as  he  measured  with  a  painter's  eye 

The  moving  picture.     The  abandon'd  limbs, 

Stained  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 

Swollen  to  purple  fulness;  the  gray  hair, 

Tliin  and  disordered,  hung  about  his  eyes, 

And  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterness 


36  PARRHASIUS. 

Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white. 
And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 

Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 

****** 

The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  armor,  and  about 
In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,  and  Dian,  and  stern  Jove, 
And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 
Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 
And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness, 
The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvass.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh, 
And  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  wild 
Forth  with  its  reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye, 


PARRHA8IU8.  3 

Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip 

Were  like  the  winged  God's,  hreathing  from  his  flight. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back ! 
Look !  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here — 
Quick — or  he  faints ! — stand  with  the  cordial  near ! 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack ! 
Press  down  the  poison'd  links  into  his  flesh ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh ! 

So — let  him  writhe !     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha !  gray-haired,  and  so  strong ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan ! 


38  PARRHASIUS. 

"Pity"  thee!     Soldo! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar — 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter? 

I'd  rack  thee  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine? 

"  Hereafter ! "     Ay — hereafter! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  sceptic's  laughter? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story. 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

No,  no,  old  man  !  we  die 
Ev'n  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  ev'n  as  they — 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

Yet  there's  a  deathless  name  ! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn — 


]•  A KU ii  \sirs.  > 

And  though  its  crown  of  tl.unc 
(Consumed  my  bruin  to  ashes  as  it  won  me — 
By  all  the  fiery  stars!  I'd  pluck  it  on  me! 

Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stiile 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

All — I  would  do  it  all — 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot — 
Thrust  foully  into  the  earth  to  be  forgot — 

Oh  Heavens — but  I  appal 

Your  heart,  old  man !  forgive ha !  on  your  lives 

Let  him  not  faint! — rack  him  till  he  revives! 

Vain — vain — give  o'er.     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now— 
Stand  back !  I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow ! 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips ! 


40  PARRHASIUS. 

Shivering !     Hark !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now- — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  oh,  Death! 

Look !  how  his  temple  flutters ! 
Is  his  heart  still?     Aha!  lift  up  his  head  ! 

He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him — so — he's  dead." 
##***** 

How  like  a  mountain  devil  in  the  heart 

Rules  the  unreined  ambition !     Let  it  once 

But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 

Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 

And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 

The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 

The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 

Left  in  the  desert  for  the  spirit's  lip, 

We  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget 

The  thirst  of  which  we  perish !     Yet  hath  life 

Many  a  falser  idol.     There  are  hopes 

Promising  well,  and  love-touch'd  dreams  for  some, 

And  passions,  many  a  wild  one,  and  fair  schemes 

For  gold  and  pleasure — yet  will  only  this 

Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only  gives 

Even  of  bitterness  a  beaker  full! 

Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 

Broken  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen 

Burning  to  waste,  or  if  its  light  is  found, 


PAKRHASli  11 

Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  broken — 

Gain  is  a  grovelling  care,  and  Folly  tin--. 

And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  led 

And  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  ( lain 

Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose — 

From  all  but  keen  Ambition,  will  the  soul 

Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forgetfulness 

To  wander  like  a  resile—  child  away. 

Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 

Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 

If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 

Must  canker  in  its  coffers — if  the  links 

Treachery-broken,  will  unite  no  more — 

If  the  deep-yearning  love  that  hath  not  found 

Its  like  in  the  cold  world  must  waste  in  tears — 

If  truth  and  fervor  and  devotcdness 

Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 

And  die  with  their  own  fulness — if  beyond 

The  grave  there  is  no  Heaven  in  whose  wide  air 

The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 

Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 

May  spend  itself—  what  ihrin  -mocked  fools  are  ice! 


THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL. 


HE  sat  and  read.     A  book  with  golden  clasps, 

Printed  in  Florence,  lettered  as  with  jet 

Set  upon  pearl,  lay  raised  upon  a  frame 

Before  him,     'Twas  a  volume  of  old  time; 

And  in  it  were  fine  mysteries  of  the  stars 

Solved  with  a  cunning  wisdom,  and  strange  thoughts, 

Half  prophecy,  half  poetry,  and  dreams 

Clearer  than  truth  and  speculations  wild 

That  touched  the  secrets  of  your  very  soul, 

They  were  so  based  on  Nature.     With  a  face 

Glowing  with  thought,  he  pored  upon  the  book. 

The  cushions  of  an  Indian  loom  lay  soft 

Beneath  his  limbs,  and,  as  he  turned  the  page, 

The  sunlight,  streaming  through  the  curtain's  fold. 

Fell  on  his  jewelled  fingers  tinct  with  rose, 

And  the  rich  woods  of  the  quaint  furniture 


Lay  deepenin<_r  their  \eined  color-  in  the  .-int. 

And  the  stained  marhle<  on  their  pedesials 

Stood  like  a  silent,  company — Voltaire, 

\Viih  an  infernal  -neer  upon  his  lips, 

And  Socrates,  with  godlike  human  love 

Stamped  on  his  countenance,  and  orators 

Of  times  gone  hy  that  made  them,  and  old  bank 

And  Mediccan  Venus,  half  divine. 

Around  the  room  were  -helves  of  dainty  lore, 

And  rich  old  pictures  hung  ujxm  the  walls 

Where  the  slant  light  fell  on  them,  and  cased  gems, 

Medallions,  rare  mosaic?,  and  antiques 

From  Herculaneum  the  niches  rilled. 

And  on  a  table  of  enamel,  wrought 

With  a  lost  art  in  Italy,  there  lay 

Prints  of  fair  women,  and  engravings  queer, 

And  a  new  poem,  and  a  costly  toy, 

And  in  their  midst  a  ma.— i\e  lamp  of  hroii/e 

Burning  sweet  spiers  constantly.     Asleep 

Upon  the  carpet  couched  a  graceful  hound 

Of  a  rare  breed,  and  as  his  master  gave 

A  murmur  of  delight  at  some  sweet  line, 

He  raised  his  slender  head,  and  kept  his  eye 

Upon  him  till  the  plea-ant  smile  had  passed 

From  his  mild  lips,  and  then  he  slept  again 


44 


The  light  beyond  the  crimson  folds  grew  dusk, 
And  the  clear  letters  of  the  pleasant  book 
Mingled  and  blurred,  and  the  lithe  hound  rose  up, 
And  with  his  earnest  eye  upon  the  door, 
Listened  attentively.     It  came  as  wont — 
The  fall  of  a  light  foot  upon  the  stair — 
And  the  fond  animal  sprang  out  to  meet 
His  mistress,  and  caress  the  ungloved  hand 
He  seemed  to  know  was  beautiful.     She  stooped 
Gracefully  down  and  touched  his  silken  ears 
As  she  passed  in — then,  with  a  tenderness, 
Half  playful  and  half  serious,  she  knelt 
Upon  the  ottoman,  and  pressed  her  lips 

Upon  her  husband's  forehead. 

##**#* 

She  rose  and  put  the  curtain  folds  aside 
From  the  high  window,  and  looked  out  upon 
The  shining  stars  in  silence.     "  Look  they  not 
Like  Paradises  to  thine  eye,"  he  said — 
But  as  he  spoke  a  tear  fell  through  the  light, 
And  starting  from  his  seat  he  folded  her 
Close  to  his  heart,  and  with  unsteady  voice 
Asked  if  she  was  not  happy.     A  faint  smile 
Broke  through  her  tears ;  and  pushing  off  the  hair 
From  his  fine  forehead,  she  held  back  his  head 


With  her  white  hand,  and  <jay.iii'_r  «>ii  hi.-  la< ••• 
(ia\e  to  her  heart  free  ntieranre: 

Happy? — yes,  dearest — blest 
Beyond  the  limit  of  my  wildest  dream 
Too  bright,  indeed,  my  blessing  <  \-  i    eem; 

There  lives  not  in  my  breast 
One  of  Hope's  proi n  i-i's  by  Ln\<>  mikcpt, 
And  yet — forgive  me,  Ernest — I  have  wept. 

How  shall  I  speak  of  sadii' 
And  seem  not  thankless  to  my  God  and  thee? 
How  can  the  lighie>t  \vi-h  hut  -eem  to  be 

The  very  whim  of  madness? 
Yet,  oh,  there  is  a  boon  thy  love  beside— 
And  I  will  ask  it  of  thee — in  my  pride ! 

List,  while  my  boldness  lingers ! 
If  thou  hadst  won  yon  twinkling  star  to  hear  thee — 
If  thou  couldst  bid  the  rainbow's  curve  bend  near  thee 

If  thou  couldst  charm  thy  fingers 
To  weave  for  thee  the  Sunset's  tent  of  gold — 
Wouldst  in  thine  own  heart  treasure  it  untold? 


46 

. 

If  thou  hadst  Ariel's  gift, 
To  course  the  veined  metals  of  the  earth — 
If  thou  couldst  wind  a  fountain  to  its  birth — 

If  thou  couldst  know  the  drift 
Of  the  lost  cloud  that  sailed  into  the  sky- 
Would  st  keep  it  for  thine  own  unanswered  eye? 

It  is  thy  life  and  mine ! — 
Thou  in  thyself,  and  I  in  thee,  misprison 
Gifts  like  a  circle  of  bright  stars  unrisen — 

For  thou,  whose  mind  should  shine 
Eminent  as  a  planet's  light,  art  here — 
Moved  with  the  starting  of  a  woman's  tear ! 

I  have  told  o'er  thy  powers 
In  secret,  as  a  miser  tells  his*gold. 
I  know  thy  spirit  calm,  and  true,  and  bold — 

I've  watched  thy  lightest  hours, 
And  seen  thee,  in  the  wildest  flush  of  youth, 
Touch'd  with  the  instinct  ravishment  of  truth. 

Thou  hast  the  secret  strange 
To  read  that  hidden  book,  the  human  heart — 
Thou  hast  the  ready  writer's  practised  art — 


••in    WIFE'S   uppBAi  ir 

Tlimi  ha~t  Hi..  ilioiiLilit  tn  ran-v 
Tin-  hro;idi><t  riivlrs  Intrll.vi  hath  ran — 
And  thou  art  Gin!'-  h.-^t.  work    -an  honest  man! 

\ml  yet — thou  slumbercst  here 
Like  a  caged  bird  that  never  knew  its  pinions, 
And  others  track  in  glory  the  dnniin 

Where  thou  hast  not  thy  j>eer — 
Srtiinir  tln-ir  \\rak.-r  ryr-  mil.,  tlir  sun. 
And  plucking  honor  that  thou  slmuldsi  liavc  WtHL 

Oh,  if  thon  lovM.-i  me  ever, 
Ernest,  my  husband  !     If  th'  idolatry 
That  lets  go  heaven  to  fling  its  all  on  thee — 

If  to  dismiss  thee  nevrr 

In  dream  or  pray«-r.  ha\«>  given  me  aught  to  claim — 
Heed  me — oh.  hood  me!  and  awake  to  Fame! 

Her  lips 

< '!.-.  d  with  an  earnest  sweetness,  and  she  sat 
Gazing  into  his  eyes  as  if  her  look 
Searched  their  dark  orbs  for  answer.     The  warm  blood 
Into  his  temples  mounted,  and  across 
His  countenance  the  flush  of  passionate  thoughts 
Passed  with  irresolute  quickness.     He  rose  up 
And  paced  the  dim  room  rapidly  awhile, 


48  THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

Calming  his  troubled  mind,  and  then  he  came 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  forehead  white, 
And  in  a  voice  of  heavenly  tenderness 
Answered  her : 

Before  I  knew  thee,  Mary, 
Ambition  was  my  angel.     I  did  hear 
Forever  its  witched  voices  in  mine  ear — 

My  days  were  visionary, 
My  nights  were  like  the  slumbers  of  the  mad, 
And  every  dream  swept  o'er  me  glory-clad. 

I  read  the  burning  letters 
Of  warlike  pomp,  on  History's  page,  alone — 
I  counted  nothing  the  struck  widow's  moan — 

I  heard  no  clank  of  fetters — 
I  only  felt  the  trumpet's  stirring  blast, 
And  lean-eyed  Famine  stalked  unchallenged  past. 

I  heard,  with  veins  of  lightning, 
The  utterance  of  the  Statesman's  word  of  power — 
Binding  and  loosing  nations  in  an  hour — 

But  while  my  eye  was  brightening, 
A  masked  detraction  breathed  upon  his  fame, 
And  a  cursed  serpent  slimed  his  written  name. 


TIM:    WIFE'S    \ri-r.\i. 


The  Poet  rapt  ruin.- 
With  th<>  tran^ioi-iin-  IIIIMC  that  he  SCffig, 
\\ith  fibres  iron  i  his  lit.-  In-  1\  iv  he  strun 

And  bathed  the  \\orld  in  i- 
And  then  he  turned  away  to  muse  apart, 
And  Scorn  Stole  alter  liini  and  broke  hi-  li«-;irt  ! 

Yet  here  and  there  I  saw 
One  who  did  set  the  world  at  calm  defiance, 
And  press  right  onward  with  a  lx»ld  reliance; 

And  he  did  seem  to  a\ve 
The  very  Shadows  pressing  on  hi-  !<  •  '-i. 
And,  with  a  rflODg  hfurt.  h«-ld  himself  at  rest. 

And  then  I  looked  again, 
And  he  had  shut  the  door  upon  tin-  crowd. 
And  on  hi-  tare  In;  lay  and  groaned  aloud- 

Wrestling  with  hidden  pain: 
And  in  her  chamber  sat  IIH  will-  in  i«-;irs, 
And  his  sweet  babes  grew  sad  with  whi-p<-ivd  f«-;ir-. 

And  so  I  turned  si.-k-hmrtrd 
From  the  bright  cup  sway,  and  in  my  pftdnen 
Searched  mine  own  Inborn  for  some  spring  dfgiftdiMBl 

And  lo!  a  fountain  stnit«  .1 


50 


Whose  waters  ev'n  in  death  flow  calm  and  fast. 
And  my  wild  fever-thirst  was  slaked  at  last. 

And  then  I  met  thee,  Mary, 
And  felt  how  love  may  into  fulness  pour, 
Like  light  into  a  fountain  running  o'er ; 

And  I  did  hope  to  vary 
My  life  but  with  surprises  sweet  as  this — 
A  dream,  but  for  thy  waking,  filled  with  bliss. 

Yet  now  I  feel  my  spirit 
Bitterly  stirred,  and — nay,  lift  up  thy  brow ! 
It  is  thine  own  voice  echoing  to  thee  now, 

And  thou  didst  pray  to  hear  it — 
I  must  unto  my  work  and  my  stern  hours ! 

Take  from  my  room  thy  harp,  and  books,  and  flowers ! 

****** 

*•       *        *         A  year— 
And  in  his  room  again  he  sat  alone. 
His  frame  had  lost  its  fulness  in  that  time; 
His  handsome  features  had  grown  sharp  and  thin, 
And  from  his  lips  the  constant  smile  had  faded. 
Wild  fires  had  burned  the  languor  from  his  eye : 
The  lids  looked  fevered,  and  the  brows  were  bent 
With  an  habitual  frown.     He  was  much  changed. 
His  chin  was  resting  on  his  clenched  hand, 


51 


And  with  his  foot  he  beat  upon  the  floor 
Unconsciously  the  time  of  a  sad  turn-. 
Thoughts  of  the  past  preyed  on  him  bitterly. 
He  had  won  power  and  held  it.     He  had 
Steadily  upward  in  the  eye  of  Fame, 
And  kept  his  truth  unsullied — hut  his  home 
Had  been  invaded  by  envenomed  tongues; 
His  wife — his  spotless  wife — had  been  assailed 
By  slander,  and  his  child  had  grown  afraid 
Tfrcome  to  him — his  manners  were  so  stern. 
He  could  not  speak  beside  his  own  hearth  freely. 
His  friends  were  half  estranged,  and  vulgar  men 
Presumed  upon  their  services  and  grew 
Familiar  with  him.     He'd  small  time  to  sleep, 
And  none  to  pray;  and,  with  his  heart  in  fetters, 
He  bore  deep  insults  silently,  and  bowed 
Respectfully  to  men  who  knew  he  loathed  them ! 
And  when  his  heart  was  eloquent  with  truth, 
And  love  of  country  and  an  honest  zeal 
Burned  for  expression,  he  could  find  no  words 
They  would  not  misinterpret  with  their  lies. 
What  were  his  many  honors  to  him  now? 
The  good  half  doubted,  falsehood  was  so  strong — 
His  home  was  hateful  with  its  cautious  fears — 
1 1  is  wife  lay  trembling  on  his  very  breast 
Frighted  with  calumny! And  this  is  FAME. 


THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT.* 


;  Influentia  cceli  morbum  hunc  movet,  interdum  omnibus  aliis  amotis.' 

Melancthon  de  anima,  cap.  dt  ftumorifi*. 


NIGHT  in  Arabia.     An  hour  agone 
Pale  Dian  had  descended  from  the  sky, 
Flinging  her  cestus  out  upon  the  sea, 
And  at  their  watches  now  the  solemn  stars 
Stood  vigilant  and  lone,  and,  dead  asleep, 
With  not  a  shadow  moving  on  its  breast, 
The  breathing  Earth  lay  in  its  silver  dew, 
And,  trembling  on  their  myriad  viewless  wings, 
Th'  imprisoned  odors  left  the  flowers  to  dream 
And  stole  away  upon  the  yielding  aii\ 

*  A  famous  Arabian  astrologer,  who  is  said  to  have  spent  forty  years  in  dis 
covering  the  motion  of  the  eighth  sphere.  He  had  a  scholar,  a  young  Bedouin 
Arab,  who,  with  a  singular  passion  for  knowledge,  abandoned  his  wandering 
tribe,  and,  applying  himself  too  closely  to  astrology,  lost  his  reason,  and  died. 


THK  SCHOLAR  OF    1  1 1 1  1  HT  BEN  CIIURAT.          53 

Ben  Choral's  tower  .-tinnl-  <hado\vy  and  tall 

In  Mtvra's  lom-Iir-L  -ireet:  and  ever  there, 

A\  hen  ni'jht  is  at  tin;  deepest,  burn<  his  lamp 

As  constant  as  the  Cynosure,  and  forth 

From  his  looped  window  stretch  the  brazen  tubes, 

Pointing  forever  at  the  central  star 

Of  that  dim  nebula  just  lifting  now 

Over  Mount  Arafat.     The  sky  to-night 

Is  of  a  clearer  blackness  than  is  wont, 

And  far  within  its  depths  the  colored  stars* 

Sparkle  like  Lrems — caprieimi<  Aniarcst 

Flu<hinir  and  paling  in  the  Southern  arch. 

And  azure  Lyra,  like  a  woman's  eye, 

Burning  with  soft  blue  lustre,  and  auay 

( >\  •  i  the  desert  the  bright  Polar-star, 

AVI  lite  as  a  flashing  icicle,  and  here, 

*  Even  to  the  naked  eye,  the  stars  appear  of  palpably  different  colors ;  but 
when  viewed  with  a  prismatic  j;la>s,  ihev  may  be  very  accurately  > 
mi.,  tli.-  ml,  the  vrllow,  th<-  brilliant  while,  the  .lull  whit.-,  an.l  tin-  anoma 
lous.  This  is  true  also  of  the  plain-is,  which  shine  by  reflected  light,  and  of 
course  the  difference  of  color  must  be  supposed  to  arise  from  their  ditlrrcnt 
powers  to  absorb  and  n-l'n-ct  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  original  composition  of 
the  stars,  and  the  ditr.'H-nt  dispersive  powers  of  their  different  atmospheres, 
may  be  supposed  to  account  also  for  this  phenomenon. 

|  This  star  exhibits  a  peculiar  quality — a  rapid  and  beautiful  change  in  the 
color  of  its  light ;  every  alternate  twinkling  being  of  an  intense  reddish  crimson 
color,  and  the  answering  one  of  a  brilliant  white. 


54  THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHOKAT. 

Hung  like  a  lamp  above  th'  Arabian  sea, 

Mars  with  his  dusky  glow,  and,  fairer  yet, 

Mild  Sirius*  tinct  with  dewy  violet, 

Set  like  a  flower  upon  the  breast  of  Eve; 

And  in  the  zenith  the  sweet  Pleiades,  t 

(Alas  !  that  even  a  star  may  pass  from  heaven 

And  not  be  missed!)  the  linked  Pleiades 

Undimmed  are  there,  though  from  the  sister  band 

The  fairest  has  gone  down,  and  South  away, 

Hirundot  with  its  little  company, 

And  white-browed  Vesta,  lamping  on  her  path 

Lonely  and  planet-calm,  and,  all  through  heaven, 

Articulate  almost,  they  troop  to-night, 

Like  unrobed  angels  in  a  prophet's  trance. 

Ben  Chorat  knelt  before  his  telescope,  II 

Gazing  with  earnest  stillness  on  the  stars. 

The  gray  hairs  struggling  from  his  turban  folds, 


*  When  seen  with  a  prismatic  glass,  Sirius  shows  a  large  brush  of  exceed 
ingly  beautiful  violet  rays. 

t  The  Pleiades  are  vertical  in  Arabia. 

J  An  Arabic  constellation  placed  instead  of  the  Piscis  Australis,  because 
the  swallow  arrives  in  Arabia  about  the  time  of  the  heliacal  rising  of  the  Fishes. 

||  An  anachronism,  the  author  is  aware.     The  telescope  was  not  invented 
for  a  century  or  two  after  the  time  of  Ben  Chorat. 


Tin:  iCHOLAB  OF  TITI:I;I ;-r  BEN  CHOKAT. 

Played  with  the  entering  wind  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  on  his  breast  his  venerable.  Ixjard 

AViih  supernatural  whiteness  loosely  fell. 

TllC  black  llesh  swelled  aliout  his  sandal  tliongs, 

Tiirht,  with  his  painful  posture,  and  his  lean 

And  withered  fingers  to  his  knees  were  clenched. 

And  the  thin  lashes  of  his  straining  eye 

Lay  with  unwinking  closeness  to  the  lens, 

Stiffened  with  tense  up-turning.     Hour  by  hour, 

Till  the  stars  melted  in  the  Hush  of  morn, 

The  old  astrologer  knelt  moveless  there, 

Ravished  past  pain  with  the  bewildering  spheres, 

And,  hour  by  hour,  with  the  same  patient  thought, 

Pored  his  pale  scholar  on  the  characters 

Of  Chaldee  writ,  or,  as  his  gaze  grew  dim 

AVith  weariness,  the  dark-eyed  Arab  laid 

His  head  upon  the  window  and  looked  forth 

I  pon  the  heavens  awhile,  until  the  dews 

And  the  soft  beauty  of  the  silent  night 

Cooled  his  flushed  eyelids,  and  then  patiently 

He  turned  unto  his  constant  task  again. 

The  sparry  glinting  of  the  morning  star 

Shot  through  the  leaves  of  a  majestic  palm 

Fringing  Mount  Arafat,  and,  as  it  caught 

The  eye  of  the  rapt  scholar,  he  arose 

And  clasped  the  volume  with  an  eager  haste, 


56          THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT. 

And  as  the  glorious  planet  mounted  on. 
Melting  her  way  into  the  upper  sky, 
He  breathlessly  gazed  on  her:— 

1  Star  of  the  silver  ray  ! 
Bright  as  a  god,  but  punctual  as  a  slave — 
What  spirit  the  eternal  canon  gave 

That  bends  thee  to  thy  way? 
What  is  the  soul  that  on  thine  arrowy  light 
Is  walking  earth  and  heaven  in  pride  to-night? 

We  know  when  thou  wilt  soar 
Over  the  mount — thy  change,  and  place,  and  time 
'Tis  written  in  the  Chaldee's  mystic  rhyme 

As  'twere  a  priceless  lore ! 
I  knew  as  much  in  my  Bedouin  garb — 
Coursing  the  desert  on  my  flying  barb? 

How  oft  amid  the  tents 
Upon  Sahara's  sands  I've  walked  alone, 
Waiting  all  night  for  thee,  resplendent  one ! 

With  what  magnificence, 
In  the  last  watches,  to  my  thirsting  eye, 
Thy  passionate  beauty  flushed  into  the  sky ! 


THE  SCHMT.  \H    <>T-'  TIIKMKT    I'.I.N    CHOftAT.  57 

Oh,  God  !  how  Hew  my  soul 
Out  to  thy  glory — upward  on  thy  ray — 
Panting  as  thou  asccndest  on  thy  way 

As  if  thine  own  control — 
This  searchless  spirit  that  I  cannot  find 
J  l;ul  set  its  radiant  law  upon  my  mind  ! 

More  than  all  stars  in  heaven 
I  felt  thee  in  my  heart !  my  love  became 
A  frenzy,  and  consumed  me  with  its  flame. 

Ay — in  the  desert  even — 
My  dark  eyed  Ahra  coursing  at  my  sid»*, 
The  star,  not  Abra,  was  my  spirit's  bride ! 

My  Abra  is  no  more ! 
My  '  desert-bird'  is  in  a  stranger's  stall — 
My  trite,  my  tent — I  sacrificed  them  all 

For  this  heart-wasting  lore ! — 
Yet  than  all  these  the  thought  is  sweeter  far— 
Thou  wert  ascendant  at  my  birth,  bright  star! 

The  Chaldee  calls  me  thine — 
And  in  this  breast,  that  I  must  rend  to  be 
A  spirit  upon  wings  of  light  like  thee, 


58  THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT. 

I  feel  that  thou  art  mine! 

Oh,  God  !  that  these  dull  fetters  would  give  way 
And  let  me  forth  to  track  thy  silver  ray  !' 

*  *  Ben  Chorat  rose 

And  silently  looked  forth  upon  the  East. 
The  dawn  was  stealing  up  into  the  sky 
On  its  gray  feet,  the  stars  grew  dim  apace, 
And  faded,  till  the  Morning  Star  alone, 
Soft  as  a  molten  diamond's  liquid  fire, 
Burned  in  the  heavens.     The  morn  grew  freshlier — 
The  upper  clouds  were  faintly  touched  with  gold, 
The  fan-palms  rustled  in  the  early  air, 
Daylight  spread  cool  and  broadly  to  the  hills, 
And  still  the  star  was  visible,  and  still 
The  young  Bedouin  with  a  straining  eye 
Drank  its  departing  light  into  his  soul. 
It  faded — melted — and  the  fiery  rim 
Of  the  clear  sun  came  up,  and  painfully 
The  passionate  scholar  pressed  upon  his  eyes 
His  dusky  fingers,  and  with  limbs  as  weak 
As  a  sick  child's,  turned  fainting  to  his  couch, 
And  slept.          *  * 

It  was  the  morning  watch  once  more. 
The  clouds  were  drifting  rapidly  above, 


THE  BCHOLAit  «>F  Tm.ni.T  r.r.x  <-IU»H.VT.         56 

And  dim  and  fast  the  irlimmerin'_r  -tar-  ilevv  throiiL'h. 

And  a<  tin'  111  fill  irn-t  .-oii'jhed  mournfully. 

The  shutters  -hook,  and  on  the  -loping  iv.nf 

Plashed  heavily  larire.  single  drops  of  rain 

And  all  was  -till  airain.      JVu  (  liora; 

15y  the  dim  lamp.  and.  while  hi-  scholar  slept, 

Pored  on  the  Chaldee  wisdom.     At  his  feet, 

Stretched  on  a  pallet,  lay  the  Arab  boy 

Muttering  fast  in  his  unquiet  sleep, 

And  workini:  his  dark  fingers  in  his  palms 

Convulsively.     His  sallow  lips  were  pale. 

And,  as  they  moved.  \\\<  teeth  .-lioxved  irhastly  through, 

"White  as  a  chamel  hone.  and.  closely  drawn 

Upon  his  sunken  eyes,  as  if  to  press 

Some  frightful  image  from  the  bloodshot  balk 

His  lids  a  moment  quivered,  and  again 

Relaxed,  half  open,  in  a  calmer  sleep. 

Ben  Chorat  gazed  upon  the  dropping  sands 
Of  the  departing  hour.     The  last  white  «rrain 
Fell  through,  and  with  the  tremulous  hand  of  age 
The  old  astrologer  reversed  the  gla— . 
And  as  the  voiceless  monitor  went  on, 
Wasting  and  wasting  with  the  precious  hour, 
He  looked  upon  it  with  a  moving  lip, 


60  THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT. 

And  starting  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  heavens. 
Cursing  the  clouds  impatiently. 

'  'Tis  time!' 

Muttered  the  dying  scholar,  and  he  dashed 
The  tangled  hair  from  his  black  eyes  away, 
And,  seizing  on  Ben  Chorat's  mantle  folds, 
He  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  falling  prone 
Upon  the  window  ledge,  gazed  stedfastly 
Into  the  East: 

c  There  is  a  cloud  between — 
She  sits  this  instant  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  that  dusk  veil  hides  all  her  glory  now — 

Yet  floats  she  as  serene 

Into  the  heavens ! Oh,  God  !  that  even  so 

I  could  o'ermount  my  spirit-cloud,  and  go! 

The  cloud  begins  to  drift! 
Aha !  Fling  open !  'tis  the  star — the  sky ! 
Touch  me,  immortal  mother !  and  I  fly ! 

Wider !  thou  cloudy  rift ! 

Let  through ! — such  glory  should  have  radiant  room ! 
Let  through ! — a  star-child  on  its  light  goes  home ! 


THi:  srilul.AU   <>r  Tlir.HKT    I'l.N   CIIOHAT.  01 

Sjicjik  to  me.  brethren  bri-jht ! 
Yc  who  are  floating  in  tlir-r  living  beam-! 
Ye  who  have  come  to  me  in  starry  dreams! 

Ye  who  have  winded  the  liuhl 
Of  our  bright  mother  \\itli  its  thoughts  <>f  llamr  - 
— (I  knew  it  passed  through  spirits  as  it  came)— 

Tell  me !  what  power  have  ye? 
What  are  the  heights  ye  reach  upon  your  wings? 
What  know  ye  of  the  myriad  wondrous  things 

I  perish  but  to  see? 

Are  ye  thought-rapid? — Can  ye  fly  as  far — 
As  instant  as  a  thought,  from  star  to  star? 

Where  has  the  Pleiad  gone? 

Where  have  all  missing  stars*  found  light  and  home? 
Who  bids  the  Stella  Mirat  go  and  come? 

*  '  Missing  stars'  arc  often  spoken  of  in  the  old  books  of  astronomy.  Ilip- 
parchus  mentions  one  that  appeared  and  vanished  very  suddenly;  and  in  the 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  Kepler  discovered  a  new  star  near  the 
heel  of  the  right  foot  of  Serpentarius,  '  so  bright  and  sparkling  that  it  exceeded 
any  thing  he  had  ever  seen  before.'  He  *  took  notice  that  it  was  every  mo 
ment  changing  into  some  of  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  <-.\rept  \%h.  n  it  waa 
near  the  horizon,  when  it  was  generally  white.'  It  disappeared  the  following 
year,  and  has  not  been  seen  since. 

f  A  wonderful  star  in  the  neck  of  the  Whale,  discovered  by  Fabricius  in 
the  fifteenth  century.  It  appears  and  disapp«  .:-  Wfl  n  tunes  in  MX  years, 
and  continues  in  the  greatest  lustre  for  fifteen  days  together. 


62          THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT. 

Why  sits  the  Pole-star  lone? 
And  why,  like  banded  sisters,  through  the  air 
Go  in  bright  troops  the  constellations  fair? 

Ben  Chorat!  dost  thou  mark? 

The  star !  the  star !     By  heavens;  the  cloud  drifts  o'er ! 
Gone — and  I  live!  nay — will  my  heart  beat  more? 

Look !  master !  'tis  all  dark ! 

Not  a  clear  speck  in  heaven ! — my  eye-balls  smother ! 
Breakthrough  the  clouds  once  more !  oh,  starry  mother ! 

I  will  lie  down !     Yet  stay ! 
The  rain  beats  out  the  odor  from  the  gurns, 
And  strangely  soft  to-night  the  spice- wind  comes ! 

I  am  a  child  ahvay 

When  it  is  on  my  forehead !     Abra  sweet ! 
Would  I  were  in  the  desert  at  thy  feet ! 

My  barb !  my  glorious  steed  ! 
Methinks  my  soul  would  mount  upon  its  track 
More  fleetly,  could  I  die  upon  thy  back ! 

How  would  thy  thrilling  speed 
Quicken  my  pulse ! — Oh,  Allah !  I  get  wild ! 
Would  that  I  were  once  more  a  desert-child  t 


Tin:  s<  •in.i.Ai;     p  TMI:I'.KT  BEN  ciioRAT.         i-i! 

Nay — nay — T  had  for 

My  mother!  my  star-mother!— 1  fa  !  my  hreath 
Slides! more  air!          !><-n  < 'horat!  this  is     death' 

Touch  me! 1  fed  you  not! 

Dying ! — Farewell !  good  master ! — room !  more  room ! 
Abra!  I — loved  thee;  star — bright  star!   I come! 

How  idly  of  the  human  heart  we  speak, 
Giving  it  gods  of  clay!     How  worse  than  vain 
Is  the  school  homily,  that  Eden's  fruit 
I. 'an  not  be  plucked  too  freely  from  l  the  tree 
Of  good  and  evil.'     Wisdom  sits  alone. 
Topmost  in  heaven; — she  is  its  light — its  God  ! 
And  in  the  heart  of  man  she  sits  as  high — 
Though  grovelling  eyes  forget  her  oftentimes, 
Seeing  but  this  world's  idols.     The  pure  mind 
Sees  her  forever;  and  in  youth  we  come 
Filled  with  her  sainted  ravishment,  and  kneel, 
Worshipping  God  through  her  sweet  altar-fires, 
And  then  is  knowledge  *  good.'     We  come  too  oft. 
The  heart  grows  proud  with  fulness,  and  we  soon 
Look  with  licentious  freedom  on  the  maid 
Throned  in  celestial  beauty.     There  she  sits, 
Robed  in  her  soft  and  seraph  loveliness, 
Instructing  and  forgiving,  and  we  gaze 
I  "mil  desire  grows  wild,  and,  with  our  hands 


64  THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  CHORAT. 

Upon  her  very  garments,  are  struck  down. 

Blasted  with  a  consuming  fire  from  heaven! 

Yet,  oh,  how  full  of  music  from  her  lips 

Breathe  the  calm  tones  of  wisdom !     Human  praise 

Is  sweet,  till  envy  mars  it,  and  the  touch 

Of  new-won  gold  stirs  up  the  pulses  well, 

And  woman's  love,  if  in  a  beggar's  lamp 

'Twould  burn,  might  light  us  cheerly  through  the  world, 

But  Knowledge  hath  a  far  more  wildering  tongue, 

And  she  will  stoop  and  lead  you  to  the  stars, 

And  witch  you  with  her  mysteries,  till  gold 

Is  a  forgotten  dross,  and  power  and  fame 

Toys  of  an  hour,  and  woman's  careless  love 

Light  as  the  breath  that  breaks  it.     He  who  binds 

His  soul  to  knowledge  steals  the  key  of  heaven — 

But  'tis  a  bitter  mockery  that  the  fruit 

May  hang  within  his  reach,  and  when,  with  thirst 

Wrought  to  a  maddening  frenzy,  he  would  taste — 

It  burns  his  lips  to  ashes ! 


THE  HEALING  OF  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS. 


FRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.     She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance, 
Her  thin  pale  fingers  clasp'd  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And  as  it  stirrd  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  mov'd,  and  heavily 
She  turn'd  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there — 
The  same  lov'd,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 
With  the  fast-filling  tears,  and,  with  a  sigh 
Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  his  name, 


u 


66  THE  HEALING  OF 

She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips, 

And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face — 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceas'd  its  pressure,  and  he  could  not  hear 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils,  and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse,  and  at  her  mouth 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ach'd  with  its  deathly  stillness.     *     *     * 


It  was  night — 

And  softly  o'er  the  Sea  of  Gallilee 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipp'd  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  play'd  low  upon  the  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
"Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 
In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 
Seem'd  like  some  just  born  harmony  in  the  air 
Wak'd  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 
With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 


Tin.  i>\r<;irn.K  OF  j AIKUS.  67 

Lay  hi-  small  -vrip.  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 
And  staff,  for  they  had  waited  by  lli< 
Till  he  came  o'er  from  CJadaivur.  and  pray'd 
For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 
His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 
And  the  long  curls  from  ofi*  his  shoulders  fell 
As  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  and  still 
The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep, 
And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty, 
And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mixM  with  power, 
Fill'd  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 
As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
JAIRUS  THE  RULER.     With  his  flowing  robe 
Gather'd  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fix'd  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  master's  side, 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 
And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
Of  the  meek  Nazarine  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And  as  the  twelve  look'd  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 
Steal  to  his  silver  beard,  and  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  haiuU 


68  THE  HEALING  OF 

Press'd  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmur'd  low, 

"  Master  !  my  daughter  /"—     ***** 

*******     The  same  silvery  light 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcom'd  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight  slanting  to  the  marble  floor 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair,  but  ere  he  touched 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead!" — 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Chok'd  in  its  utterance ; — But  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — but  sleepeth" 

They  pass'd  in. 

The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burn'd  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRU8. 

CurFd  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtain  slumbered  in  their  folds — 
Not  ev'n  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  heside  the  bed 
And  pray'd  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm  sad  face, 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  mov'd 
The  silken  curtain  silently  apart 
And  look'd  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay— 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life, 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins — 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay 
Matching  the  arches  pencil'd  on  her"  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  the  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 


69 


70  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS. 

In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  rais'd 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said 
"  Maiden!  Arise!" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran, 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture,  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  I 


TO  A  CITY  PIGEON. 


STOOP  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touch'd  my  love. 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  in  thy  mellow  throat, 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eaves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshen'd  leaves  ? 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  and  sweet  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear 
This  noise  of  people — this  sultry  air? 

Thou  alone  of  the  feather'd  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  human  face ; 


72  TO  A  CITY  PIGEON. 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee. 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be ; 

And  the  "the  gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  kept  apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tam'd  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fair 
That  else  were  seal'd  in  the  crowded  air ; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read,  to  my  humble  eaves, 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout, 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music  out, 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  Heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee  ! 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY. 


A  BOY  !  yet  in  his  eye  you  trace 

The  watchfulness  of  riper  years, 
And  tales  are  in  that  serious  face 
Of  feelings  early  steep'd  in  tears  ; 

And  in  that  tranquil  gaze 
There  lingers  many  a  thought  unsaid, 

Shadows  of  other  days, 
Whose  hours  with  shapes  of  beauty  came  and  fled. 

And  sometimes  it  is  even  so ! 

The  spirit  ripens  in  the  germ; 
The  new-seal'd  fountains  overflow, 

The  bright  wings  tremble  in  the  worm. 
The  soul  detects  some  passing  token, 

Some  emblem,  of  a  brighter  world, 
And,  with  its  shell  of  clay  unbroken, 

Its  shining  pinions  are  unfurFd, 


74  ON  A  PICTURE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY. 

And,  like  a  blessed  dream. 
Phantoms,  apparrell'd  from  the  sky, 

Athwart  its  vision  gleam, 
As  if  the  light  of  Heaven  had  touch'd  its  gifted  eye. 

}  Tis  strange  how  childhood's  simple  words 

Interpret  Nature's  mystic  book — 
How  it  will  listen  to  the  birds, 
Or  ponder  on  the  running  brook, 

As  if  its  spirit  fed. 

And  strange  that  we  remember  not, 
Who  fill  its  eye,  and  weave  its  lot, 

How  lightly  it  were  led 
Back  to  the  home  which  it  has  scarce  forgot. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  "CHILD  TIRED  OF  PLAY." 


TIRED  of  play !     Tired  of  play ! 
What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day? 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee; 
The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree ; 
The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves, 
Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it,  beautiful  one ! 

Playing?     But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  even  tide? 
What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven? 
What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and  hill, 


76  CHILD  TIRED  OP  PLAY. 

By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill? 
There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day. 
That  will  find  thee  tired — but  not  of  play ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now. 
With  drooping  limbs  and  an  aching  brow. 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 

Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 

Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now ! 

Well  for  thee,  if  thy  lip  could  tell 

A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 

If  thine  open  hand  hath  reliev'd  distress—- 

If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness — 

If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 

And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence — 

If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 

With  their  holy  meanings  eloquently — 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove. 

If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard — 

Then,  when  the  night  steals  on  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 

Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


